


break from faith

by Marenke



Series: sea of bitterness [3]
Category: 17th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Original Work
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, F/F, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mild Sexual Content, Murder, NaNoWriMo, Prophecy, Sad Ending, Sexual Content, VERY loosely 17th century, Witches, be gentle it was my first time writing smut, historical fiction but loosely, how many tags do i have to add to say this doesnt have a happy ending, me grabbing a minor historical figure: wow lesbian rights, would tagging murder wives be wrong if theyre not married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 00:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21290702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marenke/pseuds/Marenke
Summary: Everybody knew that Anne de Chantraine was a witch.
Relationships: Anne de Chantraine/Manon de Malenfant, Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Series: sea of bitterness [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534817
Comments: 7
Kudos: 7





	break from faith

**Author's Note:**

> hello fellas welcome to. this  
anne de chantraine is a minor witch from a small town in like. belgium or whatever. two sources i read had two different hair colors for her so i picked what i prefered best. thanks for that n hope you enjoy this thing i wrote in like. 10hrs.
> 
> edit: break from faith now has a russian translation! pick it up [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8802958)

Everybody knew that Anne de Chantraine, the girl the local widow was taking under wing before she burned at the stake with her lover for being a witch and a thief, was a witch too. Oh, _ sure_, people didn’t speak up unless it was convenient to get the priest off their back, but if anyone had a problem and wanted it solved on the sly for a modest price, Anne was the way to go.

Maybe _ that _was why Manon donned a cloak and slipped away from home, sneaking through the dark streets until the small house she knew Anne lived in, the house the burnt witch had left behind to her.

The lights were off, except for a small candle that burnt bright on the living room, spilling into the streets and creating a pool of light. A shadow moved within the house, and by the thin frame, it was Anne. Manon couldn’t help but recall all the rumors about witches she had heard; was it true that they danced naked on the Sabbath? A blush overtook her face, and Manon slapped her cheeks delicately.

Looking at both sides of the street before taking a deep breath, Manon created the courage needed to approach the window, rapping twice in the glass stained with what looked like dried blood. Inside, the figure stopped moving, and Manon fidgeted nervously, changing her body weight from one foot to another, until the figure’s shadow grew and opened the window, revealing a pale, creamy hand decked in a black robe, and not much more, waiting. Manon picked up the hand and kissed it.

“Who wishes for the witch’s favor?” Her sultry voice asked, and Manon took another deep breath, separating her face from the hand. 

“It’s me.” Manon started, and an unamused snort from Anne followed. “Er, Manon, Manon de…”

“_Manon _ suffices. Come in. There’s a door on the alley.” The witch said, window closing soon after. Manon nodded to herself, and followed the instructions, ducking into the alleyway and avoiding the sleeping black cats and rats nested there, before finding herself in front of a brilliantly red door, even in the dark. She cocked her head at that, and motioned to touch it, finding the wood wet with a half-congealed substance that reeked of iron.

_ Blood_. A shudder passed through her body, and Manon started having second thoughts about this whole venture, but she needed it. A witch was the only one who could help her.

Manon was the daughter of one of the town’s richest men, who was almost making it to a small noble. Therefore, it was her fate, as his daughter, to assume the duty of bringing blue blood to their lineage. However, her husband-to-be, while similar in age to her - he was eighteen and she, sixteen on the cusp of seventeen -, was also a rich bastard with a famously cruel streak, and rumours flew of the things he did to maids and servants. She didn’t want such a husband for herself, let alone anyone, but she felt it was her duty to give him a merciful, undeserved, end.

Anne opened the door, red hair spilling around her, one eyebrow cocked, unamused. Manon was sure she looked childish to the witch, with one hand extended and panic drawn in her blue eyes.

“Please don’t touch the blood, it keeps demons away.” Recoiling her hand, Manon nodded, Anne allowing her passage. She obeyed the silent prompting, entering a small backroom, full of stocked sacks of flour and a few barrels of ale. Anne gestured for her to sit in an improvised chair, which was nothing more than an upturned barrel in front of a small table with three legs and a sack of grain holding it standing, another barrel behind it. 

Sat, she waited for Anne to join her, and the witch did so, sauntering casually, flipping her hair, as red as the blood that slowly dried on the other side of the door. On the table, carved rocks with runes unknown and cards, a glass ball sitting at the center. The air was pungent with the smell of herbs, and a quick look up revealed the herbs strung along the rafts.

“So, what does a pretty girl need with such a terrifying witch such as I?” Anne asked, elbows on the table rattling everything, face resting in her hands. Gulping, Manon started to join her words, weaving them into something that wouldn’t be a mess.

Deep breath, once more; Manon could do this. 

Then, she deflated. Where was she supposed to start? Should she ask for something to bewitch her husband and treat her nicely, or ask for a poison good enough for two?

“Do you want some ale? Might loosen your nerves.” Anne asked, amused, arms crossed. Nodding, Manon agreed, and the witch left her seat for a moment, returning with two tall glasses of beer that looked lukewarm. “We have some stew remaining, too. Are you hungry?”

“I’m alright. Thank you.” Manon chugged the glass, missing the surprised look Anne gave her for a moment, before she set back the glass on the table; when she did, the witch had already smoothed her expression. “How do I start this…”

“Depends on what your heart desires, girl.” The witch sat down once more, and Manon was suddenly focused on the hem of her cloak, picking at the seams. “Abortives, to get rid of any pesky things? A spell, perhaps, to lure someone into your graces? Or maybe are we talking about murder?”

Manon bit her lower lip, and Anne glowed. She liked poisons, it seemed.

“Poison, then? My specialty, but it’ll cost you. Say…” She analyzed Manon. “You look like a good girl, from the good part of town. Can you part with twenty or thirty florins, I wonder?”

Manon shook her head. Anne cocked hers.

“Then what, Manon? I’m afraid Satan hasn’t given me my mind reading powers yet.” An amused smile appeared on Anne’s face, and Manon looked at her. She didn’t think her own name could sound like that on another person’s voice: her father had always said it like an insult, and her husband-to-be said it with such contempt on the one time they met she had almost left in tears.

“I… I need my husband to like me. Well, my future husband.” She put a strand of dirty blonde hair behind her ear, feeling a blush creep through her cheeks. “He’s… He’s cruel, or so I’ve heard.”

Something akin to contempt passed through Anne’s face, and she reached a hand to touch Manon’s face, pulling her face up, analyzing her.

“I think I know who you’re talking about. He won’t _ love _ you, or _ like _ you, or see you as anything _ but _a rich girl who wishes for blue-blooded children.” Her words were harsh, but rung true. Manon fought tears. “But I can teach you to bewitch him, to make sure he won’t look for companionship in another woman’s bed and shame you with bastards. How does that sound?”

“You can do that? You can bewitch him?” Manon asked, confused, and Anne nodded, leaning in, disrupting the balance on the table. Half of the stones fell to the ground, and the cards soon followed. 

“No, _ I _ can’t. _ You, _ however, will.” Anne smiled, a dangerous creature on human skin, and panic flashed on the girl reflected on Anne’s green eyes. “Say, you have a body that is just as warm as any milkmaid. Let us put it to good use, shall we?”

Manon rose to her feet.

“I can’t, I can’t, I must be a virgin, else I…” She was having motion sickness, stomach looping as she walked back, and cringed when she hit the door. Anne didn’t react. 

“Please, don’t you know you have to be a virgin to be a witch?” She waved a hand, and that confused Manon enough.

“But I thought the…” Anne nodded, aware of the name Manon was trying to avoid. “Well, doesn’t _ he _sleep with witches in such carnal manners?”

“Someone’s aware of us, huh?” Anne smirked, and Manon felt flustered and ridiculous. As a child, she thought witches were the most interesting beings, and learned how to read by using the court papers her cousin, a cleric on the tribunal, brought home to copy. 

Her fascination ended pretty early when she learned all the tortures used, and she vowed to never be a witch; the knowledge remained, however, against her will.

“Well, yes, and also no. Satan prefers men.” The smirk persisted as the connotations of what was said sunk in, and a blush instead took her face, red as blood. “But don’t worry. I’ll be gentle, and I’ll keep you a virgin, since it’s so important to you. Unless, of course, you’d rather have another witch teach you?”

Manon shook her head vehemently. If she was going to sleep (by God, the blasphemy of knowing someone else carnally before marriage, even if it was a woman!) with someone, better be Anne than some other, unknown witch.

“No, please. You.” Anne smirked once more, and covered the distance between them with three long steps. She put her hands - warm, with calluses born of sewing in her palms - on Manon’s face, eyes analyzing her, too fast. 

She then pulled Manon into a kiss, lips soft and inviting as she put her hands on Manon’s blonde hair, pulling her closer, tongue inviting Manon’s mouth to open slightly, a silent command she obeyed. One of Anne’s hands wandered down, opening the clasp of her cloak, which fell to the ground in a pile of fabric, revealing her nightgown; she had escaped in the middle of the night to this venture, after all. A hand found her breast, pressing it lightly, and a small moan was borne in her throat.

When they separated, Anne kept her cool, and Manon was a mess of nerves, the witch stepping back and watching what she had done.

“Well, it’ll take you a while to learn, since you’re purer than a nun.” She chuckled at the thought, and then her sharp eyes focused back on Manon. “Come here in two days, same hour. For now, I’ll give you…”

She went back to her pile of carved rocks, now on the floor, and picked one seemingly at random, throwing it to Manon, who caught it instinctually, sticking it into her pockets, grabbing her cloak in a hurry and covering her body with it. It felt useless, however: it was almost like Anne’s eyes could see through the fabric; considering witches and their powers, it may as well be true.

“For protection. As long as you carry that, you’ll be invisible.” A smile, dazzling, offered to her. 

“What is the price?” She asked, and Anne stopped smiling as she grabbed her coin purse, opening it and counting the coins inside.

“For you, it won’t be material. You’ll give me your heart and then you’ll lose it to the fire. Now go, Manon. If you leave now, you’ll arrive home before first light.”

With a quick nod, Manon left the witch’s room, confused about her words, and as she fled in the night, she almost could hear Anne cackling, insane.

* * *

Manon woke up in bed, feeling groggy and unsure if the last night excursion had been anything but a terrible dream, borne out of her sinful mind. With a sigh, she rolled in bed, grabbing her pillow to try and be a slothful girl who would need to confess her sins to the priest later, and woke up fully when she felt a rock dig into her hip.

She shot up, sitting, grabbing the rock from her pocket, staring at it in the half light of the morning: it was a smooth grey pebble, the kind one would throw in the lake to see it skip, and a few rough, carved lines, broke the otherwise perfect surface, marring it with an angry symbol that did not give Manon the feeling of safety.

Clutching the rock in her hand, Manon scanned her room for somewhere safe to keep it, and in the end, ended up sticking it underneath her mattress, just in time for the morning maid to came in her room and get her ready for the day’s activities.

Manon had to force a smile out of herself, greeting the woman as warmly as she could, feeling the guilt of being into a witch’s pact for her own gain.

In a moment where the maid wasn’t paying attention, she touched her lips, feeling the heat of Anne’s mouth on hers linger. Then, with a shake of her head, she allowed it to dissipate.

* * *

Anne seemed surprised she was there, at the side door. Her hair was up in a messy bun, and her neck was up for all to see, ripe with bruises.

“Did someone hurt you?” Manon asked, before her head could think of what was coming out of her mouth. Anne seemed pleased at this phrase, beckoning her to enter. She did, and took off her cloak at the silent commanding of Anne, who set it aside, carefully folding it in half before setting it aside. Anne made a cooing nose at Manon’s nightgown, pure white and proper, virginal, almost.

“No, not at all, but thank you for asking, love.” _ Love _; a mockery of her, for sure. Anne scratched the bruises, which, now that they were in a place with proper candlelight, seemed to be shaped like hands. “The madam got mad that I was in Satan’s graces more for luring in a good little lamb such as you, while all she did was steal some jewelry.”

Manon opened and closed her mouth as Anne guided her inside, one hand in the small of her back, which made her shiver, forgetting her question of "isn't the madam dead?".

“Isn’t stealing a sin?” She asked instead.

“Manon, dear, aren’t _ we _serving the lord of sins?” A grin, terrifying, and then promptly gone like it hadn’t even been there. Anne guided her to a pile of hay in a corner, a used blanket atop of it, and a pillow to booth. It looked well cared for, trinkets surround the pile that seemed personal, and by the look of it, this was were Anne slept. “Alright, take off your dress.”

Manon felt herself blushing. Anne cocked her head, and smiled.

“What? Your husband might take you while clothed, but I don’t believe on that. Naked, please.” A pause, as Manon’s hands flew to the buttons of her nightgown. “Of course, unless you’d like to just _ feel _instead of more practical lessons.”

She paused, and then shook her head. She was there to learn, so using a trip that might later be forbidden to her in useless things would not do.

“No. You’re here to teach, so teach me.” Anne smiled at that, genuine, as Manon struggled with the buttons.

“Ah, a hands-on kind of girl, huh? Oh, we’ll have so much fun, you and I.” Anne approached, pinning her against the wall, Manon’s hands still on the small, unneeded buttons of her nightgown. Her hands rested atop Manon’s, warm, careful, as if she was spun glass instead of flesh and blood.

She didn’t know a witch’s hands could be so warm.

“Let me help. The world is already cruel to people like us.” She said, so soft and full of feeling it was impossible for Manon not to choke up. She didn’t, however: that would’ve been childish. 

Anne peppered kisses on her face, soft and delicate, as her hands blindly undid the buttons, until it fell in a pile of fabric at her feet. Then, Anne stepped back, looking at Manon’s body like something she enjoyed seeing, before nodding to herself, experience shining in her green, green eyes.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing, Manon?” Her name in Anne’s mouth: it felt surprisingly nice, like coming home after a long, rainy day, and finding the fireplace already warming up the room and dinner on the table. Opening her arms up, Anne smiled. “Come here.”

She obeyed.

* * *

Anne’s hands were good, she’d give her that; they found the most sensitive spots on her body with unexpected ease, drawing out moan after moan with ease. Her mouth, too, was godly (or ungodly, depending on your point of view), suckling at Manon’s nipples and giving her soft bites that didn’t hurt, just heightened her senses.

When heat tightened itself and curled in her belly, releasing in a wave so loud it made Anne shut her up with her mouth, it felt heavenly, and she smiled lazily at Anne, who kissed her softly.

“And that’s, my dear,” Anne started, slow, drawing circles in Manon’s skin, the blonde girl sleepy and content, curled up in Anne’s pile of hay, the warmth of the girl’s body not letting her be too cold. “, what a man would do to you to give you pleasure, were they human beings.”

“Aren’t they?” Manon asked, yawning, and Anne smiled at her, putting a strand of hair behind Manon’s ear, revealing her flushed face. 

“Not at all. But don’t worry, you’re safe with me.” She kissed Manon’s forehead, and then got up, cleaning her dirty fingers on her skirt. “Come on now, get dressed. Your way back home is long.”

Manon nodded, still halfway to the land of dreams, being helped by Anne to dress up, the girl gently guiding her into stepping into her gown, sliding it up her body - if Anne’s hands wandered more than strictly necessary, then Manon wasn’t complaining, not after all Anne had made her feel; it was only fair, after all - and then doing all the buttons quietly. She grabbed Manon’s hands and led her to the entrance, tying her cloak around her body, and kissing her mouth before letting go.

Tomorrow, when the sun was up and Manon would bitterly regret this, shame bubbling underneath her skin like a curse, she’d say unkind things about herself: but right now, still riding the wave of pleasure, Manon allowed it all to happen.

* * *

Manon had gone to town with her father, the day after her dallying with Anne. Although, were she honest, it wasn’t as much “going to town” as actually “sitting inside the carriage”, and so, she waited as he did his business, her being taken around and seeing the world through her small window. The heat felt suffocating, and she wondered if it would come back to her if she opened a door to allow some fresh air inside.

With a sigh, she left herself to the heat, waving herself with a hand to try and get air, but only getting the warm, overexerted thing from before, not bringing relief.

The door opened, and air cooled down the ambiance; turning to it to thank her father for coming back - he had been taking a while, now -, when she met Anne’s green eyes, the girl dressed plainly, with a handful of jewels as she closed the door, falling to the ground. Recognition shone in her eyes, together with surprise.

“Anne?” Manon called, going to the carriage’s floor, the redhead sitting on the ground and looking to the door.

“Sorry. Saw the carriage, entered it thinking it was empty. Didn’t expect you here.” She said, a slight sheen of sweat covering her skin, her dress sticking to her body. “Can I stay for a moment or two? I’m afraid the good folks I stole from are after me.”

Anne rose the jewels - a particularly pretty necklace, a stone the size of a quail’s egg that might’ve been a emerald or something like that shining on the dim light of the carriage, another necklace with small, clear stones and what seemed like a handful of rings - and smiled when she saw Manon’s open mouth, the blonde careful inspecting a ring she picked at random.

“Are those from mademoiselle de la Roux?” She asked, blue eyes going to Anne’s green eyes, and the girl nodded. “My good God, they are so beautiful. I always see her wearing these to Church, and I had to confess _ so _many times out of sheer envy!”

“I’d give you them, but they’re kind of a hot item right now, and we all know you don’t deserve to be associated with petty criminals such as me.” Purred Anne, grabbing the jewelry back and sticking it into her dress pockets. She then looked around, sprawling herself like a lazy cat. “By the way, your father’s going to stay there a while. The guild owner is moody today. _ Someone _stole a few hundred florins from him yesterday.”

There was a lazy smile on Anne’s face, looking at her nails like she had nothing to do with that. Manon grinned, sitting by her side, the space too cramped for two people to be sat upon, but it allowed for more contact with Anne, close and comforting. 

“Geez, wonder who could that be.” She had no business being this familiar with a witch, with a thief, with this strange girl who was a virtual stranger, and yet her body acted on its own, allowed Anne to touch her in places only her husband should’ve, allowed this closeness of warmth.

Anne put a hand to her chest, dramatics all around her aura, not matching the slow smile she had on her face.

“You wound me, milady. Just because I had to steal some florins to eat and to distribute around, I am to be labelled a thief?”

“And _ worse_!” Manon giggled, and Anne cocked her head, one of her hands going to Manon’s legs, flipping over her simple dress, warm against the cold of her sweat. Manon’s breath hitched as the hand drew closer, too fast and yet too slow. “An adulterer, too. I am a woman to be married, you know.”

She stopped at the edge of her underdrawers, pausing minimally, before continuing, following the lines of the fabric before reaching their band, slipping underneath. If caught, this would be a more than compromising position - why, it would land her straight into witch territory, into a pyre of her own making.

The thought excited her, and she wiggled her hips as Anne’s hands found their desired place. Anne put her free hand on Manon’s mouth, surely to drown out the sounds.

“Yet you did not seem married, writing on my fingers like you did last night.” Anne said, lascivious, and drawing out a moan from Manon when she found that sweet, sweet spot between her, working her fingers slowly. “Tell me, girl, does it feel good?”

A small moan was all the answers Anne needed, smiling as she worked into making Manon come, slowly building a choir of moans, until - 

“Mmmh, let’s make this an exercise in patience, shall we?” Anne said, stopping her work, withdrawing her fingers from Manon and slowly, carefully, teasingly so drawing them from underneath her skirts, presenting them in front of Manon, who saw the fingers glistening with her own juices. Shame burned her, but so did her frustration. “Come to me tomorrow, and then I’ll teach you more. But for now, clean my hand, will you?”

Manon glared at her, feeling the pleasant wave that had been building stay still, and she opened her mouth, taking Anne’s fingers into herself (_ha_) and coating them in saliva as she licked. 

She tasted odd, Manon decided, and did not stop staring at Anne as her tongue worked around, until they were nicely coated, letting go of them with an audible pop. The girl, meanwhile, had been looking on with a half-open mouth, eyes huge and staring, as if unbelieving what she saw.

“Satan be damned, Manon.” Anne breathed, and smirked, and Manon could barely believe how lovely her name - common, overused - sounded on Anne’s tongue. “Perhaps you’re a better pupil than previously thought.”

“I’m a fast learner.” Manon replied, smiling innocently, and Anne nodded, rising, dusting her skirts. She leaned in to kiss her, brief as it was, before jumping out of the carriage.

Manon rose from her place in the ground, sitting back on the seat and closing her legs, feeling like the Whore of Babylon herself as she grinded, trying to get the release that she knew very well wouldn’t come.

The door opening stopped her useless efforts, and Manon stood still, staring at her father with a placid smile.

“Father, what took you so long?” Manon smiled, hands on her lap, placid.

“The merchant wanted more than usual. I had to negotiate.” _ Then Anne had really stolen from him_, Manon thought, but said nothing. He looked around the carriage, frowning, nose turning. “The Lord be good, this place is warm enough to kill someone! Let us go, Manon.”

“Yes, father.” She replied, the smile never leaving her face as her father rapped on the communication door, ordering the coach to go.

A glint of gold caught her attention after their next stop, and Manon bent down, grabbing the item and smiling when she saw one of the many rings, a simple gold thing with no extra decorations that she slipped onto her finger without a second thought.

* * *

Manon sullied Anne’s doorstep on the exact time agreed, and the girl didn’t even bother when her hands were coated in blood as she rapped on the door, excited, jumping in place. The entire day had dragged itself until this moment, and she could barely wait.

Anne opened the door and smiled, pulling her in by the clasp of her cloak with one hand, the other holding a cup of something warm.

“Let’s go, you’ve waited for so long, poor thing.” Cooed Anne, and Manon, who had known her for a total of less than three days worth of stolen conversations and sinful moments, was sure this was supposed to be a mockery. But yet, she couldn’t help but nod, accepting the cup of tea the witch offered her. “Drink. It’s a potion.”

“Will it kill me?”

A beat. Anne cocked her head, muttering the words to herself.

“Do you want for me to kill you?” Anne asked, guiding her to the bed of hay.

“I don’t know. Maybe? I just…” A pause, her feelings organizing themselves in her heart as she drank the bitter concoction, tasting like herbal medicine that she remembered drinking once to avoid a sickness that had been spreading around. The witch had been burned a few weeks later. “I feel like I’ve known you for a long time, now. I trust you to not kill me.”

Anne smiled and kissed her temple, soft, caring and familiar, like a long-lost lover who returned home from the war after all hope was lost.

“You have.” Manon felt warm, too suddenly, and she loosened the clasp of her cloak, letting it fall to the ground as she walked. They didn’t react to it. “At least two centuries.”

“I haven’t been alive that long.” Was her head swimming, or was everything moving? What was in the tea? 

“You have, you just don’t remember.”

She blinked, nodded, and accepted when Anne made her sit, hands delicate on her shoulders. The hay seemed fresh, and the blanket seemed washed. 

“But that’s alright. You’re always mine, no matter the time.” Manon didn’t have time to process this: Anne started to work on the buttons of her nightgown, and she lost herself to the redhead’s hands.

* * *

Before she left for the night, Anne looked at her, smiling, and grabbed from the rafts a sweet-smelling linen sack, putting it in Manon’s pliable hands, curling her fingers over it. It felt like dried herbs.

“Poison.” Anne said, and Manon cocked her head. “For your husband to be, or your father, or yourself.”

“Why?” Manon asked, and Anne smiled, sad and soft.

“I’m a witch, and I know you’ll need it.” Was all she said, before making her leave, hurried, offering a kiss that felt final. 

At the door, she hesitated, hand curled by her side as if Anne was trying to stop herself from touching Manon.

“I wish we had more time.” She said, voice breaking at the last syllable, and Manon frowned. “These few days we spent together… Satan, hear my regrets: I should’ve sought you sooner. If only we had more time...”

“What are you talking about?”

Anne smiled, leaned in, and whispered her secrets of the future, before kissing her forehead. Her eyes grew huge, but Anne’s stayed serious, with that sad smile in her face.

“Is your heart mine?”

“It is.” The words came before any rational thought, and the sadness in Anne’s eyes grew.

“When my time comes, I know you’ll join me, and I hope you know I’ll love you until then. Now go. Let me give your heart to the fires before I regret my decisions.”

Manon obeyed, and with a nod, she fled into the night, praying that prophecies weren’t true.

* * *

She learned why the following day, during lunch. Her father came in, strutting proudly into the dining room, and Manon looked at him curiously.

“Your wedding date has been decided.” He said, and sat down. Manon gripped the spoon she was holding with more strength than what was necessary. “Two months from now, you’ll marry and live with your husband.”

“I am pleased, father.” Manon lied, eyes back to her lunch to avoid screaming.

* * *

That night, she donned her cloak and fled into the night, going to Anne’s house and finding it raided, a cross in every window and door. Manon fell to the ground, a hand in her mouth to avoid screaming.

The Inquisition had been there, and they had taken her. 

* * *

Manon hated going into her cousin’s room; it was musty, smelling like mold and there was a permanent draft that went through the roof and into the bed. Yet, there was where she was, sneaking in unnoticed into his room, trying her best to avoid the piles upon piles of paper there.

He always brought work home. If Anne had been caught, then her papers - or at least a copy of them - would be there. 

It wasn’t easy to find. There was a six-month backlog, and her cousin had a tendency to work through this chronologically. As such, since Anne had been brought barely a day before, she’d be in the bottom of the pile, and not letting the piles be disturbed was of highest priority.

She read the words so familiar, analyzing the case. It was pretty vague - until now, it was nothing but suspicions, since apparently Anne had fled, but Manon wasn’t naïve enough to imagine that she wouldn’t be caught.

After all, Manon had learned to read with stories of witch burnings; its paths were obvious to her, especially so after Anne’s ever so helpful tips.

* * *

Anne got caught after a few mere weeks. Manon visited her, and the witch spat words so harsh, with eyes so scared of the fate that would befall them both, were Manon caught talking with her, so full of caring that she vowed to not come to her again.

Manon heard the sound of her voice, raw, heard the guards speaking of the torture, her mind recalling the gruesome details. 

She left Anne with a kiss and the small, carved pebble she had gotten a lifetime ago, and Anne clutched it so tightly in her hands that it seemed to disappear, like a prayer that one was forced to gulp down.

* * *

She got married, and her husband treated her more or less humanly. When he didn’t, she acted like Anne, recalling her eyes and smile, and then suddenly she wasn’t a cow, or a pig, but a woman just like the maids whose tails he chased.

Anne’s poison stayed put in her pocket, slowly grinding down the plants as she smiled, played the good wife, and tried to live feeling nothing - her feelings buried deep inside the prison of the city, waiting for the fire that would make them soar again before becoming ashes in the wind. 

* * *

“A witch will be burnt tomorrow morning.” Her husband said, as Manon cleaned the blood that came from her nostrils in the dewy linens of the marital bed. He had been rough; a sign he grew disinterested. She used the back of her hand to clean it, and looked at him: he did not look at her, adjusting his clothes.

Even though his job was to add noble blood to her lineage, he had failed that duty in the two years of their marriage, her belly never quickening with child. That was alright with Manon; she had found the idea of a pregnancy with such a brute a most horrible thought.

She knew whose execution it was: there was only one witch in the town jail who mattered.

“Is that so? Would you like to watch, husband?” Manon asked, a false pleasant smile etched into her face like a carved rune. 

Anne had said, so long ago, there were two paths at this point. One would lead to his death. The other… No, not at all, but Manon knew her husband well enough; after all, she had lived two years with him.

He scoffed, like she was some dumb girl with nothing between her ears. Manon had enough to know better, to smile and wait, hands on her lap. The poison was in full view; it was just a matter of time.

“Of course. Don’t expect me to come early tomorrow.” A pause, and he looked at her, splayed in bed, nose bleeding, a pitiful creature. “Get me some wine, and make it fast.”

She nodded, rising from her side of the bed, going to the wine distiller on the corner. By the side, the pouch, something she always told her husband was just pleasant-smelling herbs. He did not mind, and knew nothing of poisons to complain.

The herbs, at this point, had been crushed into a fine powder, something easily hidden in the murky depths of the beverage. A quick mix and it was done, the drink impossibly equal to before.

Manon served him it and watched him drink. She didn’t know the poison Anne had prepared, and smiled when it started acting up as soon as he finished it. Manon did not allow the chalice to fall down as he clutched his throat, crawling like the worm he was to beg for help, voice weak. Instead, she stepped on his hand, waiting, watching from above like a vengeful God.

“It’s nothing personal, husband.” Manon started, when he was giving out signs of being close to death, lips blue and eyes rolling, the girl sitting by his side, poking his cheek with too long nails. “I just think people such as you don’t deserve to live.”  
He rasped something that sounded like _witch_, and Manon smiled. Yes, she supposed she was one. After all, what else was someone who slept with witches be called, someone who believed in prophecies and followed them? No good woman of the faith would do this.

He died, quiet. Manon struggled to bring him to bed, but managed, covering him up to his neck, closing his eyes and applying what little red paint she had to his lips, trying to undo the blue. It worked, if a little; her husband looked like he was peacefully sleeping.

Manon closed the curtains to their marital bed, smiling at a job well done, and dressed herself slowly. No maid would come to the room until he came out, and Manon would give them orders to leave it alone. 

Looking at herself in the small mirror he had gifted her, Manon smiled at the result, the woman there unrecognizable, but that wasn’t the point. She had a long day to go until she could join Anne in death, after all, and time was of the essence; there was a lovely tree near to the river that ran through their property, and the shed with the rope she needed wouldn’t stay unguarded for long.


End file.
